Goodness!

This morning I was virtually introduced to someone with this blog as a segue. It was kind of thrilling, 'coz it reminds me both that this blog exists, and that somehow people do happen upon it, even though it was from last year. Woop! However, I do feel a bit of an update is in order, if only for temporal accuracy. Here is my present day one.

But you should read this one too. I think it might actually be more fun.

And there are London whore box ads, if nothing else.

new season, new blog.

It's been long enough that I can't in good faith return to this one. So instead of leaving a gaping chasm and resuming my bloggy world, I'm starting afresh. tea and symphonies.
Let's see how long number three lasts.

Waysgooze!!

Today! Grimsby! Book-fair! Imminent Fame and Fortune with fellow-book-makers, lovely old ladies, errant literate teenagers, and, erm, other people! Books! Hand-made books! Knitting! WEEHOOO!!

London Whores: #3

A Bike Accident of Gargantuan Proportion. (relatively speaking)

Circa 12.30pm, College/Spadina, Toronto.
I remember almost nothing of the event, and rely on Coco for details, who bore witness to the whole atrocity.
There we were, standing at a red-light at the corner of Spadina and College. She turned her head for one minute and turned back to see me lying beneath my bike, foot attached to pedal, between road and sidewalk; there was only a momentary pause before i resumed my chatter about something of obviously Great Importance.
The cause of this unique and unprecedented incident remains unclear, although it was pointed out at lunchtime soon after that perhaps my bike had at last made its long awaited stand on rankling relationship issues, taking the strategic immobile and relatively innocuous moment to leap on top of me and pin me to the ground:
"bloody one-sided relationship! All you do is Ride and Ride and RIDE me, AND YOU'RE ALWAYS ON TOP!!"

Both bike and rider went unharmed, and the former has been assuaged with a tightening of its clips and an affectionate pat on the saddle.

well, birds do do it...

I sighted the most remarkable thing yesterday, the likes of which I might never before this have fathomed.
Two sparrows were...erm...celebrating spring (an anomalous sight; I had always perceived them as a chaste and guileless lot) on a branch outside my window.

(I almost got a photo of it and then felt like a pornographer and stopped.)
(Ok, the sun reflected off the window and the photo didn't work.)

But what balance. what equilibrium. What HUSSIES!

This morning, only one of them is sitting on the same branch, and s/he is Utterly Dishevelled.
Like, Twice the Size mit ruffled plumage.
Plumping and pruning away, it's like seeing a bum with a hangover straighten his shirt, or rather, her tail feathers.

At last, SPRING!!! ***


***an edited version of this first vignette appeared in an email to one Ozcar Wildeflower III, before which I hadn't realized this information really should be shared with the world at large. stef lenk 2007. All rights reserved.

and just in case you missed below

"LOVE-HUNGRY CODGERS".

there's still hope.

i tell you, it's All happening in London.

someone else said this to me, sometime, somewhere. (Coco?)

Julia Roberts is 38!! [sigh] I remember when she was just a hooker with a dream.

very large unfinished clock.

So Pontiac Quarterly was wicked. Liz Clayton, you're So.Cool, and thanks thanks for the invite.
Pictured below are shots of the screen projection of my hand drawing a very large clock (3'x2.5'). In three hours I managed to complete, erm, three hours of the clock face. Can you say OCD?
And, time consuming as it will be, I will most likely finish this drawing. I mean, who wouldn't want a huge broken clock gracing their kitchen wall?

Pontiac Quarterly. Tonight.

I was most honored to be invited to participate in this month's installment of Pontiac Quarterly, happening in the Drake's underbelly tonight, starting at 7pm. It's a live magazine, that is, live readings and live artistry, which is, erm, where I come in. The theme is impatience, I will be drawing a Very Large Clock on a wall, and I will be doing it Veryyyy Verrryyy Slowly. And given my cross-hatching nature, I have Absolutely No Idea how it will turn out. Eek. But don't say I didn't warn you.

and another object of interest, from the annals of my digital camera.

Utterly Hollowed. Astounding. NOT EVEN AN EYEBALL.

i've wanted to take a photo of this, Forever.

And yesterday, on a mid-day constitutional/proofreading break, I Did.

things that should be illegal: no. 413

the last dollop of milk, meant to expire FOUR DAYS FROM NOW, which WAS FINE YESTERDAY EVENING, going off AS IT POURS INTO THE TEACUP, forcing its owner to wander disconsolately out into the street, pajamas on, hair asunder, TEALESS, in search of a new carton at the corner store.
Not to mention the more than a bit disturbing phenomenon of being eye-level, first thing in the morning, TEALESS, with the weird antiques man who sits in his store across the street from me, night after night, gazing up at my window 'til all hours, (since there is NOTHING More Entertaining than watching me sit at a drafting table for hours on end, ladies and gentlemen, Absolutely Nothing).
Grr.

oh, Giles.

[to Wesley, of course]"You have the maturity of a blueberry scone. For gods sakes HAVE AT IT and stop fluttering about!"

the first rule

of Facebook is, you do not talk about Facebook. The second rule of Facebook is, you DO NOT talk about Facebook...

...except when you're talking about Facebook. Which is all the bloody time. [sigh]

my sick taste.

I was told the other day, over guiness and a tattoo gun, about this European artist named Wim Delvoye, who tattoos pigs. And though I found that highly amusing, what I found even better was his Euterpe project, where he got friends of his to paint themselves with barium, have sex in actual medical clinics, and made the x-rays into huge stain glass windows. For example:

word of the day: incunabulum.

Definition: (1) A book printed in the earliest period of printing, especially from Gutenberg's invention of the printing press in 1436 up to 1500; an incunable; (2) any product of the earliest stage of development; (3) a cocoon.

a COCOON.

little! dog! monday!

My friend Shan has ressurected (Yahoo!) little dog monday, her blog, and you should Go Forth and Visit, because it's gorgeous. (Warning, those ever shorn of dreadlocks will suffer bouts of Intense Hair Nostalgia and renewed desires to house birds in their heads)
Her website is Awesome too, and right now she is looking for submissions for her next Stones and Ghosts, which are the small bookish packages of Love she sends through the post to her lucky subscribers. I absolutely Must recommend and encourage anyone who might be reading this to take a gander at the call and send material. (Guidelines are at her site, click above)

from a Bloody Child Genius (with an apology for its proximity to the subsequent, erm, less G rated posting)

The below drawing was sent to me today in honour of an upcoming night i'm hosting, to feature scotch and children's programming, specifically 2 dvds worth of the incalculable genius that is Dr. Snuggles.
In the hopes that you will disregard the show/character's unfortunate name, dear reader(s), I assure you this is one of the best kids programs that ever existed. I got into a discussion about it quite a while back now, and couldn't take it any more. I surfed the blessed internet 'til i found a second-hand copy of the seasons on dvd.
Soon after, a fellow fan made himself apparent, and two more promptly popped out of the woodwork. And I do confess it gives me hope for the human race. Hope and a strange kind of faith.
That said, i will now post for you a visual interpretation of said Snuggles, by the self-proclaimed bloody child genius, one Steve McKay. Truly Excellent.



(The evening in question will take place on the 21st of this month and all are welcome. Email me for details. Be prepared for spotty camels, tea, the multi-coloured rainbow, Madame Dumpy-too and Copious Amounts of Scotch Whisky.

London Whores: #2

(location of phone box: central London, further details, undetermined. circa 1995)

goddamit. One more. On the advent of "rasping pepperpot overlords"

Click here for a fantastic article forwarded to me about new electronic scrutinisers that the Brits will be putting up on street corners in the near future. They are CCTV cameras that scream at you when you break the rules. I'm particularly impressed that according to news reports, "children's voices are to be used initially to make the encounter less confrontational".
The columnist who wrote the article, Charlie Brooker, obviously a Very nifty sort (I love him), points out that "it's not yet clear whether the children's voices will address miscreants using formal language ("Attention, citizen: you are committing a felony; you have 20 seconds to desist") or in "kid speak" ("You're a bad man and I'm telling on you and my dad's going to tear your head off").
He has proposed that they make the cameras into daleks. Roving daleks to keep the population in line. Colour coded to signify the degree of infractions (yes, i'm taking the money out of this article link, but what if you don't click on it, dear reader(s)? You would miss it ALL!!!) Blue dalek=minor transgressions (minor shocks and warnings), red daleks = real crimes: (emotionless killing machines).
Screw London. Makes me want to move to Barking or Ipswich.

and all of this...

Has successfully procrastinated me away from my work on my comic storyboards and all the way to dinner-time. I am a clever and sneaky sort. [sigh]

London Whores: #1

Years ago, one of the things I used to collect was (were?) LondonWhorePhoneBoxAds (one word).
A few weeks ago we were discussing whores or something at work, and one of my co-workers (who has also lived in London) had never seen a LondonWhorePhoneBoxAd. I was dismayed. Could it be the bustling metropolis has finally cleaned itself up so much that there are no longer cue cards and titillating fluorescent card-stock tit-bits gracing the majestic red phone boxes of that lusty old city?
And now there is a whole underground of horny harlots and busty poets whose needs for expression (not to mention moonlighting clients) are no longer being adequately met.
Well.
I have finally found my old collection, and shall be peppering my blog with samples over the next little while. Be forewarned, these are all from the years '92-'95, so likely the phone numbers are defunct. If anyone finds out differently though, I would love to know.

#1. (a christmas special)



(it's the complimentary drink and mince pie that does it for me.)

tea, sociability, and a clever observation.

I found myself in a lovely tea-time discussion this weekend about the styles of different magazines (that is, many seem to have an actual style in which they are put together.) This turned to a discussion about drawing, and I thought about my tendency to belabour and perfectionize (should be a word) and draw and redraw until I get just what i'm after. And suddenly I had the most clever realization. My drawing style and process is to doodling what Brick Literary Journal is to DIY. How utterly perfect. And yet, now the pull to work amidst them both makes itself so abundantly evident.

as you can see...

the pattern seems to be NOTHING for days, weeks, and then TEN THOUSAND sundry bloggy postings.
And an innate tendency towards exaggeration.
Anyhow, onwards.

"Exorcise Caution"

A friend, who i have promised shall remain nameless, (believe it or not) told me about something scathingly brilliant she sent to a long-distance...erm...interest of hers through the post a few weeks ago:

The envelope contained:
several feet of yellow Caution tape and two sheets of paper.

One sheet read
Caution statement: exorcise caution

The other sheet read
Instructions for use:
1. Roll into tight ball
2. Throw to wind

SO. EXCELLENT.

Her next idea involves a re-creation of a cake she made about five/six years ago with someone else in mind. It was white organic vanilla with a red hacksaw baked in the middle to facillitate a prison break. She called it for those immured in prisons of their own making

Ah, performance confectionary tactics. Who knew?!?

Alfred Jarry, born 100 years and three weeks before me.

I was forwarded a link to this article the other day, which made my night. (Thank you, Robert!) I can't quite tell if it's fact or fiction, but it is by a guy named Jim McGurn, about the french writer Alfred Jarry and his Fascinating relationship with bicycles.
Favourite passages include the following:
Jarry soon became notorious. He took, for example, to riding around Paris with two revolvers tucked in his belt and a carbine across his shoulder. Some say that Jarry fired off a revolver to warn people of his approach. But it is known for certain that at one point he fixed a large bell from a tramcar onto his bicycle. All the same, Jarry was an athletic, no-nonsense cyclist and enjoyed tearing around the countryside. He criticised those who "thinking themselves poets, slow down en route to contemplate the view".

that's right, all you poets. (insert devious chuckle here.)

In 1897 Jarry and his bicycle moved into some most unusual lodgings. The landlord, feeling that high ceilings were a waste of lettable space, had put in extra floors, dividing each existing floor into two. Being only 5 foot tall Jarry did not scrape his head on the ceiling, unless, perhaps, he had swapped his flat cycling shoes for the ladies' style high-heeled boots which he sometimes wore. Here he lived with his scaled-down furniture, his mountains of books, his owls and his chameleons. A visiting friend remarked on the bicycle which Jarry kept near his bed. "I use it for getting around the room," said Jarry, and he promptly leaped on the saddle and gave a skilled demonstration.

and why is it significant that Alfred Jarry was born 100 years and three weeks before me?

Because this is a Blog. And it is about MEEEE. ME, ME, ME.
Just in case you forgot.

(ME.)

being a MANAGER.

it occurred to me, only the other day, with no small amount of awe, that i am a MANAGER.
A production MANAGER. Which means that, without even knowing it, for the last almost two years, I have been attending, daily, along with my MANAGING editor partner-in-crime, MANAGERIAL lunches.
And here i was feeling like a non-corporate bum.
Well. Today is therefore officially Completely Dedicated to our upcoming MANAGERIAL lunch, now that we can officially exhale, safe in the knowledge that we have unhanded the next issue of our magazine to the bouteous serfs that prepare it for us, post-layout. Shameless slave-drivers. The lot of us.